"Are you happy—about twins?" Hannah asked in such a low voice that Silver almost missed her question. His ears pricked and he strained to hear.
"Of course I am!" Fiona giggled with pure delight. Silver caught a fragment of music in her laughter. His fingers moved across the imaginary strings of a guitar, plucking the chord for what might be a sweet lullaby. It pleased him, so he tucked it away in a corner of his mind devoted to songcraft.
The women’s conversation moved on to baby stuff. When Ursula brought up childbirth, Silver ducked his head and covered his ears. He beat a hasty retreat down the hallway before he inadvertently learned something he really didn't want to know. He'd almost reached the end when Fiona's pointed question cut through the clamor.
"So, when are you and Silver going to have a baby?"
Silver missed a step, stumbled, and caught himself. He froze, feeling as though the business end of a rifle had just been shoved into his face. His heart thudded and never really recovered its beat.
Hannah responded after a lengthy delay. "I don’t know."
"What do you mean, you don't know?" Fiona demanded.
"I mean I don't know," Hannah snapped. "We've never discussed it."
Sweat trickled down Silver's back. Anxiety wrapped its hands around his throat in a chokehold. By "I don't know", did Hannah mean she genuinely wasn't sure of the answer? Or, did the vague answer convey her apprehension about having children with him? Hannah had been telling the truth: she and Silver had never discussed children in any depth. Oh, the thought crossed his mind every now and again, but always in vague futuristic terms.
"Well, why not?" Fiona said, pestering as younger siblings of mere minutes were prone to do. "You've always wanted children."
Almost in volition of his conscious choice, Silver found himself turning, drawn down the hallway toward the kitchen once again. He dragged his feet, but they refused to obey him and stop. It was the worst fear he carried in his heart—that Hannah believed him ill-suited to fatherhood. It was a credible concern, because Silver wondered the same thing about himself.
"I've always wanted children someday," Hannah said, strung tight. Silver understood her inflection; it signaled the near end of her patience.
"Why can't someday be today?" Fiona asked.
Hannah huffed. "Just because you're pregnant doesn't mean I have to be, too. We've been married less than a year."
"I always thought we'd be pregnant together," Fiona countered. "And that our children would play together and grow up as best friends."
"That sounds nice..." Hannah sighed, and grew serious. "But it's a pipe dream. I can't get pregnant just because you are. Besides, Silver isn't in any more of a rush to have kids than me."
By now, the uncomfortable tension had returned. Ursula and Branwen maintained a conspicuous silence while the sisters argued. An inability to see around corners didn't stop him from envisioning Ursula's severe frown.
"How would you know—you haven't discussed it," Fiona said.
"I don't have to discuss it to know what my mate thinks."
"Oh? Is it because of money? We could help you. Let me talk to Marcus—"
"Fiona! I don't need your money. My business does just fine, thank you."
Silver canted his head farther to the side, listening sharply, but he detected no frequency variation that might indicate a lie. Curiosity pricked at him. He understood his wife's security consulting firm turned a profit, but not how much. He'd never bothered to ask; she'd never volunteered. And honestly, it didn't strike him as strange until he thought about it. He and Hannah talked about music and art, books and movies, their hopes and fears... but not finances. The subject bored Silver to tears, and—never having had any amount of money of consequence—he disliked wealth just on principle.
"Is it because you're living under Ursula's roof?" Branwen asked suddenly. "Too much like living with a guy's parents?"
Ursula released a horrified gasp. "It is my fault that you and Silver are not making precious babies?"
Silver winced. Yet, at the same time, he wondered if Branwen had nailed the issue on the head. The raven-shifter possessed an uncanny talent for identifying the motivations that people kept hidden even from themselves. He wondered what rent ran on a LA apartment nowadays... and he understood just enough about the housing market that that he really didn't want to investigate it for sure.
"No!" Hannah all but shouted the denial and then dropped her volume. "Ursula, I love your home and it's a great honor being allowed to live here."
"Oh, nonsense, you are my solnyshko. When you and Silver do decide to start a family, your children will be my grandchildren," Ursula said. "I will be there to watch over your cubs as their nanny."
"Oh Ursula, thank you. We both love you so much," Hannah said.
"As I love you both."
Slow, hefty shuffling followed. Silver imagined the women hugging.
"If it's not about money or housing, then that only leaves one thing..." Fiona recited, as if reasoning it out as she talked.
"Fi, let it drop. Please," Hannah pleaded.
Silver blinked. He expected his mate to tell her twin to shut up—not for her to beg. The stress knots in his back worsened to the point of inflicting physical pain. Dread weighed on him, and he braced in anticipation of the worst-case scenario—Hannah finally admitting aloud that she believed Silver would make a terrible father.
"You're being obnoxious," Hannah added, restoring his faith in his mate's identity. Silently, he applauded her.
"You don't want to hurt Silver's male pride!" Fiona exclaimed.
The conversation skipped a beat, and then Ursula roared with deep, from the gut, bear-mirth. Her laughter rocked the house on its foundations.
Branwen joined in, snickering. "Hello, have you met Silver?"
Silver scowled—what the hell was that supposed to mean? Was he not a man? If cut, did he not bleed?
"That's not it either, though I'll give you points for creativity. That's your absurdist suggestion yet." Hannah's voice lilted with amusement, and Silver lay a hand over his heart at his mate's cruelty. He'd married a mean woman.
"What's the issue then? Tell me, and I promise, I'll let it go!" Fiona cried.
"You won't, but fine." Hannah released a thin sigh. "Silver's first love is his music... and children don't fit into that picture."
Silver opened his mouth to issue an adamant denial. A touch of anger thrilled through him. Untrue—his first love was irretrievably and inarguably Hannah. If forced to choose, he would set aside his guitar and never sing another note for the rest of his days. Life without Hannah wasn't life at all. He disliked the assessment that music and a family were incompatible, too, but he wasn't sure it was wrong.
"So this is all about music?" Fiona managed to skew the question into a tightly coiled spring.
"Silver wants his freedom so he can pursue his music." Hannah talked forcefully over her sister. "Babies mean diapers and responsibility... and don't get me wrong, I love the band, but that's not how you're supposed to raise a child. And I know Silver well enough to know he'd agree with me."
Silver winced. Hannah had him pegged. He agreed with everything she'd just said... but he also thought this Silver fellow sounded like a selfish jerk. What about what Hannah wanted?
"That's so sad." Fiona gave an exaggerated sniffle.
"It is what it is." Hannah wielded finality like a closing door, ending the discussion. With forceful enthusiasm, she asked, "Can you give me a hand getting all this back to the bungalow? I'm supposed to be packed by now, and I haven't even started."
"Sure," Fiona agreed. The sound of chairs being pushed out and objects moved followed.
"Shit, I need to pack, too," Branwen said. "Disco will be pissed if we leave late. He has everything calculated to avoid traffic."
"Someday, someone should tell that man we live in LA," Hannah said, and the others laughed. Their voices and footsteps retreated, growing fainter.
Silver
waited until the back door shut before he emerged from hiding and rounded the corner to the kitchen. He trudged along, nursing his wounded pride. If he'd been in his coyote form, his tail would've dragged on the ground. Of course, he had no one to blame but himself—served him right for eavesdropping.
Ursula turned as he approached the island. She regarded him with a sorrowful frown, and he suspected she'd known he'd been there all along.
He stopped before the stainless steel trash bin and stepped on the foot pedal. The top popped open. A Christmas present lay on its side atop a layer of crumpled brown packaging. Silver fished it out and set it on the counter.
"Ah, Silver, poor fellow. Are you okay?" Ursula came to stand at his side.
"My ego's a bit bruised, but I'll live." He flashed a carefree smile and rolled his shoulders.
Ursula tsked and shook her head. She watched while he untied the glittery bow and tore through the mirror-bright paper. From his disreputable past, Silver had some experience with producing counterfeit designer products. To him, the Neiman Marcus gift box looked genuine, as did the snow globe it contained. The glass ball enclosed a patchwork Christmas tree in yellow and green, red and blue, and a dash of white or teal stripe here and there.
He gripped the mirrored base and turned it. White confetti flakes swirled about the tree. Silver pursed his lips. In his opinion, Hannah would've loved it... if the expensive gift had come from anyone other than her father.
"Such a pretty bauble. It's a shame to throw it away." Ursula extended her arm, hand open.
He considered, then passed her the globe, but hesitated to let go. A sliver of guilt about going behind Hannah's back wedged beneath his skin, but he ignored it. Silver had grown up dirt poor, so he despised waste.
"You'll make sure it goes to some good use?" Silver asked Ursula.
"A little girl will be very happy on Christmas morning, and your Vixen will never be any the wiser." Ursula nodded heavily and raised her hand in pledge. The gesture was a touch old-fashioned, but the Russian woman never made frivolous promises.
"Thanks." He released the globe into her care and swept the torn wrappings and the box into the trash. He scanned the kitchen counter and glimpsed his missing guitar pick next to the fruit bowl. The metallic taste of irony coated his tongue as he pocketed it. His search had yielded far more than he'd bargained for.
He turned to go.
Ursula addressed his back. "Take out the garbage, will you? The can is full."
"Yes, ma'am." Silver chuckled and Ursula echoed him with her own husky laugh. He extracted the trash bag from the bin and tied off the drawstrings.
"Silver?" Ursula said his name in a too-serious tone.
Questioning, he arched his brow and glanced over. She caught his gaze and said, "Whatever ridiculous, impractical plan you're concocting—"
"Who, me?" He gasped and covered his heart.
"Yes, you." She narrowed her eyes in a daunting stare. "Stop now. Go talk to your mate before you do something tragically stupid."
"Yes, ma'am." Silver smiled, lying through his teeth.
"There is no law for fools." Ursula huffed and stomped her feet.
Chapter 2
Las Vegas, Nevada
Lady Vegas had on her glitzy Christmas gown.
Hannah backed up, making an effort to keep her attention on the bustling expanse of the casino with its bazillion blinking lights. Acres and acres of slot machines and other gaming electronics... As much as she disliked the bright lights, the clamor, and the reek of booze and cigarettes, she preferred it to the crypt-like confines of the elevator. Predictably, her claustrophobia surged to the forefront of her mind. Lightheadedness swept through her.
Okay, breathe... She inhaled and dug her smartphone out of her pocket. She wasn't worried about the device being seen on the surveillance cameras hidden in the ceiling. To security, she'd look like just another device junkie. The electronic transmitter she intended to hook up to the elevator's controls, however, would remain hidden for a while longer.
Strain weighed on the entire band, not just Hannah. The usual four-hour drive to Las Vegas had taken eight. A brutal drive. They—the entire shifter band—got stuck in stop-and-go traffic while leaving Southern California. To the last, they were at their wit's end... and she had to wonder if her request for assistance placed too much of a burden on them. Guilt didn't get in more than a single stab before something else grabbed her attention.
"Move to the left, will you, love?" Oz asked. The drummer's accent was a glorious muddle of Australian and Scottish—and Hannah would've sworn she detected a wee bit o' Irish, although Oz denied it. Mystery and mishmash characterized the half-coyote, half-dingo-shifter hybrid. He personified the penultimate philosopher-pothead with his villainously neat goatee, Deadpool T-shirt, cargo shorts, and Birkenstocks.
"Sure." Hannah scooted aside, and Silver ghosted right on her heels. They moved to stand next to the control panel. He'd been quiet during the drive from LA. His withdrawal concerned her, but only mildly. Prior to a performance, Silver tended to bottle up tremendous creative energy. He unleashed it all on stage, crafting musical magic that enthralled audiences.
Oz guided the front end of the overloaded luggage trolley while Cheyenne, their roadie and driver, pushed from the rear. Despite their combined strength, the pair contrived to turn the wheeling the cart into a full-blown production. The rest of the band—Ursula, Branwen, and Disco, Coyote Hustle's de facto leader—milled about in the elevator bank. Their assigned tasks: to keep watch and, if necessary, obstruct anyone who might decide to investigate the stopped lift.
A black briefcase on the top of the rack contained an electromagnetic pulse generator. Hannah waited until the guys had the trolley all the way inside the elevator before she swiped her finger across the remote controller. The device emitted a significant EMP field. The signal strength bars on her phone dropped to zero as its internal electronics got fried. Likewise, the cameras were destroyed; their circuity would have to be replaced before they worked again. The elevator's internal circuitry, however, had sufficient shielding that it should be protected.
Fingers crossed.
"Is it a go?" Silver asked. His lanky frame thrummed and he held himself at the ready.
"Go." She gave a quick nod to Branwen, who was watching for the signal.
"You were staring at that woman's butt!" Branwen spun on Disco, punched his upper arm, and stood toe-to-toe with him. She only came to his mid-chest, but the comedic difference in their statures didn't appear to faze Branwen.
"I did not!" Disco acquired a loud Italian accent that Hannah had never heard him use before. "C'mon, baby, you're being paranoid!"
"I am not!" Branwen huffed and flounced. She drew Ursula to her. "Mama, you saw him staring at the hussy's huge butt, didn't you?"
Ursula responded in Russian, but there was no mistaking her undeniably rude tone. Predictably, the altercation attracted the attention of the people in the vicinity. Many stared with lewd curiosity but most moved away... as they were meant to.
With a deft twist of his wrist, Silver produced a tool kit which he rolled open. He made short work of the screws, removed the cover, and started working on the internal control panel. Hannah watched him work with marked admiration. He had long, fine fingers and handled a set of lock picks with the same deftness he brought to a guitar. As a thief, he was fast and efficient; although not as competent as Hannah. On the first couple of jobs they'd worked as a team, it'd rattled Hannah's nerves over having to accept the loss of control. Given time, and the opportunity to make adjustments, she'd learned they were stronger as a team than she was alone.
The casino was a modern fortress with guards and sophisticated surveillance devices. Based on weeks spent studying the casino's schematics, she understood the elevators to be the weak link in building security... the Death Star's thermal exhaust port, so to speak.
"I'm almost ready," Silver said, talking around the small flashlight between his molars wh
ile he spliced the internal wiring.
"All right." Hannah hit the kill switch on the electromagnetic pulse generator. She dug a new smartphone and the other electronic devices they needed out of the EMP-shielded bag she'd stowed inside her purse.
Still talking like a young Robert De Niro, Disco said to Branwen, "Yeah? Well maybe if you put some meat on your skinny butt, I wouldn't have to look at other women—"
A sharp slap rang out. Ursula cursed Disco out while Branwen shrieked.
Hannah smiled and Oz chuckled. Disco and Branwen sounded like they were having a blast—definitely enjoying their roles. Her earlier guilt eased.
"They're overplaying it," Silver mumbled around the flashlight. He tilted his head, sending a cascade of long, straight black hair over his shoulders. Her fingers twitched, and she had to fight the temptation to stroke the glossy locks.
"Maybe a bit." Hannah plucked the wire cutters from his grasp and passed him the CPU they intended to splice into the system. An attached two-way transmitter would enable her to hack in with her laptop. Once she breached the elevator's rudimentary firewall, she'd have access to the entire building.
"What did you think was gonna happen when you asked those two to pretend to be married?" Oz asked.
Cheyenne's eloquent snort said it all. Hannah shot the werewolf a glance and caught him grinning. Long blond hair hung into his face and past his shoulders. He used it to hide the massive scarring on his throat from where he'd been burned with molten silver. The damage had all but ruined his voice. He hardly ever talked, and when he did, it was painful to hear.
Playing his part in the staged melodrama, Oz leaned out and addressed the bickering couple. "An ass in the hand is worth two in the air."
"What the hell's that supposed to mean?" Disco swiveled toward the drummer.
"It means, no one cares. Get your asses into this elevator 'cause we're sick of waiting for you!" Oz snapped, and the reprimand became Branwen's launching pad for a whole new round of complaints.
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